


Drinks with Friends

by toushindai (WallofIllusion)



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, working title for this one was 'spit it out already' so that's what you're getting into
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 02:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13113780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallofIllusion/pseuds/toushindai
Summary: She lets him drink a little too much because his honesty captivates her, but she's not expecting what healmostsays.





	Drinks with Friends

**Author's Note:**

> First paragraph mentions an "Iole;" I made her up, she plays piano for Red at her concerts, she's a Traverson grad who benefited from Red's work on the arts program without necessarily focusing on music herself. None of that's relevant to the fic but I'm telling you anyway.
> 
> This is like... not more than three days before [Capriccio](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11727501), likely the night directly before.

He’s drunk.

As is becoming increasingly common, “drinks with friends” has turned into “one last round, just the two of them,” and tonight Red can’t tell whose idea it was. Did she suggest it? Did Iole start shooing everyone else home? Or is it just the natural, inevitable order of things by now?

She knows it wasn’t  _his_  idea, at least. Even if he clearly prefers drinking with just her over the rest of the band—even if he really opens up when it’s just the two of them—he’s not the sort to finagle such a situation on his own. He keeps his own preferences close to his chest, which is… fine. Not how she does things herself, but fine. When he  _does_  open up to her, it makes her feel warm, and cared for. It means he trusts her.

Although right now it mostly just means he’s drunk.

Tonight it had started with him laughing at his own jokes. He’s always sarcastic, always ready with a dry quip, but when balanced on the line between “enough to drink” and “a little too much,” his jokes get sloppier and the primary source of entertainment shifts from the jokes themselves to how obviously pleased with himself he is. 

“Is there a hole in my glass?” he’d asked her with a shit-eating grin as he polished off a third Overload. “My drink keeps vanishing.” 

She rolled her eyes at him over her (second, half-finished) whiskey sour and thought about cutting him off before he could order a fourth. She could have—maybe should have. But after he got the stupid jokes out of his system, what came next was generally… honesty. And she isn’t selfless enough to cut him short from reaching  _that_  point of the night.

So that’s where they are now.

He’s at least taking this one slower, casting his gaze down into the half-emptied glass during a lull in the conversation as his smirk gives way to something more subdued. Then he looks over at her, thoughtful. No, it’s something more than just  _thoughtful_. He looks at her like she’s the only real thing in the world and he’s just realizing it now.

“You are incredible, Red,” he says, unprompted. It’s blunt, but there’s such a raw sincerity to it that it’s breathtaking to hear. The look in his eyes, almost feverish, is enough to prove that this is  _important_  to him. “Just… stunning. And, you’re sitting here with  _me_! Sometimes I still can’t believe I get to hang out with you, you know that?” 

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned it before,” she points out, eyebrow arched.

“Oooh… right.” 

It hadn’t been his proudest moment. About a year back, when they’d just been getting to know each other, he’d made the mistake of asking if she wouldn’t prefer to hang out with her more famous friends. She’d stormed off; he’d found her and groveled appropriately. In apologizing, he’d shown her the sincerity hidden behind his sarcasm for the first time, and that brief glimpse had been enough to get her hooked. As much as she enjoys his banter, that honesty— _this_  honesty—is what she really wants to know more and more of.

“Hey, you know I like hanging out with you, don’t you?” she asks, head tilted fondly to look at him. “Because I really do.” 

He scoffs. “I mean that’s what you keep telling me,” he agrees affably, once more looking into his glass. “And trust me, I’m not complaining. There’s no one in this whole damn town that I’d rather spend time with than you, Red. I think—I think I care about you more than…  _anything_  else… in my entire life. …Yeah.” 

Her face grows hot as he stumbles through the unexpected admission, and for a moment she can’t even breathe, let alone answer. In the silence, he seems to realize what he just let slip; he looks at her with a face like a startled cat. She hurriedly averts her eyes and takes another sip of her drink, though it’s mostly ice water by now. 

He lifts his glass to do the same, but then thinks better of it. He places the glass back on the table and gives it a little push away. “I think I’m done,” he says carefully. “Don’t want to run my mouth and say something stupid.” 

“I didn’t think that was stupid,” she reassures him. Her face is still warm. She wants to tell him that she feels the same way: that his presence in her life has made it so much brighter. But she can’t find the words to do the feeling justice, and she isn’t willing to sell  _this_  short. So, instead, she flirts. “I could stand to hear a little more about how wonderful I am.”

He snorts, but he doesn’t take the bait. “This’s dangerous territory, Red.”

She knows it is. “Dangerous? How so?”

“Red…”

Is she imagining the ache in his voice? She can’t be. It’s in his eyes too, desire burning through his hesitation. His hand moves forward and cups hers where it’s clasped around her glass, a heat that contrasts against the lingering cold of her drink, and it feels inevitable that his next movement will be to lean forward and  _finally_  kiss her. Her heart beats fast with the anticipation alone.

But then he says “Red,” again, and this time the tone in his voice is repressive. He gives her hand a chaste squeeze before withdrawing his touch entirely and leaning back. “Your friendship… means so much to me. I can’t… I can’t do anything… that would risk it.” He combs back his hair with his fingers for a moment. They’re trembling. “I’m sorry, I’m… really drunk. I should get home.”

It’s patently obvious that he’s talking himself down, his internal monologue made external by how much he’s had to drink. But what is she supposed to say? ‘Screw our friendship, I’d rather make out’? _She_  wants to take the risk, because she trusts the bond between them to bear it; she wants to seize him by the collar and kiss him until they’re both seeing stars. But this isn’t a decision she can make against his will. Certainly not when he’s drunk.

So she stands and drains the last of her drink. For a moment, alarm crosses his face like he’s worried he’s hurt her—but she can’t let him think that. She puts on a grin.

“Let’s get you home then, you lush.”

The grin does the trick; he relaxes and snickers. “Yyyyeah, good call.”

He stumbles a little on the way out of the bar and winces. “’m fine,” he says when she starts towards him. “Just… got some balance problems. Inner ear. Took a hit to the side of my head a few years back and didn’t get it looked at in time.” 

“I didn’t know that,” she says, strangely pleased to learn this new thing about him. 

“S’really only a problem when I’m drunk,” he explains, but as he attempts to wave off her concern, he staggers a bit again. Hurriedly, before he can object, she ducks under his arm so that it loops over her shoulders for support. He tenses. She wraps one arm around his waist to keep him from pulling away.

“You’re drunk right now,” she points out. “Let me walk you home.” 

“Like this?” he asks dubiously.

“Like this.” 

This is something friends would do for each other, after all. Though Red is sure that a  _friend’s_  heart wouldn’t beat fast like hers is doing, that a  _friend’s_  skin wouldn’t prickle with anticipation. He does his best not to lean on her entirely, but in this state, his best isn’t his  _actual_  best, and she feels his weight against her body. It’s… distracting. 

He does insist, though, that  _he’s_ walking _her_ home rather than the reverse. “You’re closer,” he points out stubbornly. “You don’t need to come all the way out to Baysign at this time of night.”

“I may live closer, but you’re the one who’s drunk,” she protests.

“I’m fine, Red, I’m just… just tipsy. The night air’s helping.” He shoots her a crooked grin. “I’ll walk you home, I’m being  _gallant_. I can be, like, your bodyguard or something!”

“I’ve told you, I don’t need a bodyguard,” she says, but she’s laughing. There is something a  _little_  gallant in his face. And he’s doing his best. “Let’s see which train comes first.”

“Deal.” 

So they make their way to the station. He pulls off of her as soon as they start encountering crowds, and when she moves to pull him back, he shakes his head. 

“I’m fine,” he mutters. “Don’t want anyone to stare at you.” 

She sighs and silently admits the wisdom in what he’s saying. She may not have her show makeup on right now, but that doesn’t always keep people from recognizing her. It’s better to keep this out of the tabloids. Especially since there isn’t a  _this_ , not technically.

Still, she misses his weight leaned against her so much that she aches. It’s hard to think of anything else. 

She loses her little gamble: her train arrives first, and he smirks with lazy pride like he had anything to do with it as they shuffle into the car. She  _doesn’t_  give him a playful shove in return, but only because she doesn’t want him to tip over. Once they’re seated, though, she elbows him in the ribs mercilessly. 

“Ow, Red,” he says, and snickers. She crosses her legs primly and sits back with a smirk of her own. They settle into companionable silence.

It’s not far from the canals to her section of Highrise, but the city is busy at this time of night and the train makes plenty of stops, prolonging the trip. In the vague bustle of people getting into and out of the car, he hums something under his breath. She recognizes it—it’s one of hers—but she pretends not to, for fear of interrupting him. She doesn’t want him to stop. If she’s on his mind, she wants to stay that way.

They disembark at her stop, and climb into a gondola. And because Highrise is residential, they’re the only ones on the streets—so Red is free to pull his arm back onto her shoulder. He jumps at her touch.

“Red,” he protests, but she doesn’t let go of his hand.

“This one’s shaky,” she says. “I don’t want you stumbling.”

If he realizes it’s just an excuse, he doesn’t say so. But he remains silent as they travel upwards, and then as they proceed down her street, a deep concentration shaping his face. She can feel his chest move as he breathes.

Once they make it to her apartment, he steps back and gestures. Gallantly. And only stumbles a little at the end of it. “Welcome home,” he declares.

“Thanks,” she says with a roll of her eyes, and unlocks her door. She can feel him watching her and wonders what he’s thinking. She doesn’t trust herself to guess; anything she could come up with would be too colored by what  _she’s_  thinking. 

With the door half-open, she turns back towards him. “Hey, come in,” she invites in a rush. Because she can’t stop herself. Because her shoulders still burn where his arm was draped over them and she wants to feel that fire everywhere. And because when he sobers up, it’ll be easier to quiet his inevitable apologies if they’ve done something that proves she doesn’t consider an apology necessary. But he starts shaking his head so fiercely that she’s worried he’ll tip over, so before he can speak, she changes what she meant. “You can sleep on my couch until you dry out.”

It doesn’t change his answer. “I think I’d better not,” he says, for a moment sending her that grin that implies they’re on the same side of the joke. Then he seems to catch himself. He straightens with all the focused gravity of a drunk trying to pull himself together. “I gotta get home.”

“Are you sure you’ll be OK?” she asks.

He flops his hand through the air. “I’m fiiine, I’ll be fine,” he says, unconvincingly.

She raises an eyebrow, and then turns to re-lock her door. “I’m coming with you.”

“It’s fine, the train stops like a block from my place—”

“Then I’ll have an easy trip back.”

“Red… No.” He turns serious again, without warning, and he cups her chin in his hand; his touch and the fervent, focused sincerity in his eyes combine to leave her breathless. “You’re so… so wonderful, Red. You’re so damn great, and I can’t—I  _can’t_ …”

His eyes bore into hers hungrily and she still can’t breathe. She wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to fight this if he doesn’t want to, neither of them do, but he’s putting his entire being into the effort, all because he cares about her, and his care overwhelms her.

He exhales heavily and pulls his hand away. “I gotta get home and sleep this off. Yeah. OK?”

“Yeah,” she agrees quietly. “All right. Just—”

“Hn?”

“Tomorrow,” she says, “once you’ve sobered up. I want to see you.”

“Thought you had rehearsal.”

“So come to rehearsal. Or we’ll get dinner beforehand. Jan’s?”

He groans. “No fair, Red. You know I can’t say no to Junction Jan’s.”

She smirks, sensing that she’s won. “See you there, then? About 1600?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, like she’s twisted his arm, but the light in his eyes says he’s already looking forward to it. He opens his mouth one last time. “Hey, Red, listen—”

She’s listening. She’s listening like her life depends on it. How could she do otherwise, when he looks at her like that? But he can’t seem to figure out what to say, and after a long moment with something undefinable hanging in the air, he shakes his head and he just says, “Thank you.”

A wry lift of one brow. “For what?”

“For…” He waves vaguely. “Everything about you.”

“ _Everything_?” she repeats after him, doubtful.

“Everything,” he swears, his eyes honest.

She shakes her head. She’s not  _that_  good of a person. “You’re drunk,” she reminds him.

“I am. I definitely am.” He peers down at her and waggles his finger in her direction. “But I mean everything I’ve said tonight. Every… single… thing.” 

She smiles softly, although she feels something more complicated than simple happiness. “I know. I believe you.” 

They say their goodbyes—trivial, easy, habitual. She tucks herself into her kitchen and pulls back the curtains just in time to see him turn back for a glimpse of her. They exchange one final wave. And then, once he’s gone, Red closes her eyes and breathes deeply. Leaning on the counter, she crosses her arms over her chest and runs her hands over her shoulders where they still burn with the memory of his touch. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she breathes, loading the word with every last indescribable emotion she’s feeling. His face is printed on her eyelids and the ache in his voice still echoes in her ears. Tightening her grip on her own shoulders, she exhales and tries to imagine what it would be like to find herself in  _his_  embrace. The image comes easily, and others follow. Each one makes her heart beat faster. 

She won’t be getting him off her mind tonight. 

 


End file.
